A Requiem for the Post-War Dream
by Begonias
Summary: When I think real hard I see the image of Ponyboy Curtis, a boy with a face similar to my best friend's, eyes bright and green and rimmed red. I see him sticking a needle in his arm; hell, I see him out in the battlefields of 'Nam, gun clenched tightly between the hands that should be doing something better than fighting a war.


_This is a tag of some sorts to my story Black Pearl, though it's not strictly necessary that you read that first. It could easily be read as a stand-alone fic. It just might be better if you do read it, though. Please review._

_Title taken from Pink Floyd's album _The Final Cut_ and its subtitle "A Requiem for the Post-War Dream"._

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A Requiem for the Post-War Dream  
**Begonias**

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I remember when I was in fourth grade and this kid Alex was following me to the corner store so I could get some beer for my dad because he wouldn't shut the hell up about it.

I didn't talk to Alex much. He was just the scrawny kid everyone liked to pick on and I guess I kinda just kept him under my wing. I felt for him even then because I was a greasy one and I didn't like gettin' picked on either, so I knew what it felt like.

We kept on walkin', and he just kept talkin', talkin', _talkin' _until I didn't think I'd be able to handle it. He always had good intentions, but he just wouldn't leave me alone, that Alex kid, no matter how many times I eventually told him to go away, and he was gettin' on my last nerve. So finally I shoved him down real hard and then he screamed.

I remember when I went to pick him up again I felt so bad and real stupid for what I did because Alex was just a little kid who could barely defend himself in a fight. What the fuck was I doin', pushin' him over?

He broke his arm, and you could even see the bone stickin' out. It was the worst thing you could ever see, at least it seemed like it in fourth grade.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this.

Maybe it's because I'm a little high. That stuff makes me feel kinda reminiscent sometimes.

Maybe it's because those were better times, even if they weren't all that much better.

Maybe it's because the guy that was next to me in my tent in 'Nam, the one holdin' his brains in, cryin', beggin' for his ma, reminded me of the way Alex cried that one day. His injury don't even compare to this guy's.

Maybe it's because that Alex kid reminds me all too much of my best friend's little brother.

When I think real hard I see the image of Ponyboy Curtis, a boy with a face similar to my best friend's, eyes bright and green and rimmed red. I see him sticking a needle in his arm; hell, I see him out in the battlefields of 'Nam, gun clenched tightly between the hands that should be doing something better than fighting a war.

He ain't been drafted. Not yet.

It don't make sense to me, this image of something that's never happened, or why I see only him when I'm high instead of my two dead friends, or Sodapop, or Evie, or even my fuckin' dead mom. Just a random kid named Alex, and Ponyboy Curtis.

Pony comes over to my house all the time. I tell him to leave. Sometimes he does, sometimes he don't. I don't want him there to see me like this, even though I don't really give a shit if I make a good impression on him or not. I always hated that kid. Just like I always hated Alex.

He feels like he needs to help everyone, and that'd be pretty damn funny if it weren't so sad. Some of us are beyond help.

I don't know why he cares anyway. Soda's comin' back, he don't owe me nothin'. It gets fuckin' annoying.

I feel kinda bad for him. I'm more empathetic than most people give me credit for. Fuck, I ain't that heartless, even if he is an annoying little shit.

I ain't been doin' much. I ain't even seen Evie yet, and I've been back two weeks. I don't want to see her. She'll want marriage. She deserves better. She wouldn't want to marry a man like me. I wouldn't.

I'm deteriorating from the inside out. I know that. I'm losin' teeth and it's only been a couple weeks since I got back. Good. Maybe then I'll die, because I ain't livin' now.

And then, when the kid comes back again, he's upset for some fuckin' reason.

And for some odd reason, this is the first time I see just how grown up he is.

He's not fuckin' cryin' because Darry said something mean, he's not crying because he got a goddamn B+ on a test. He's upset because life is hard, because we're all just kids forced to grow up way too goddamn fast. And Pony's seen it all.

That's when I start to feel respect for him creeping up. I want to punch him in his face but I also want to hug him, poor fuckin' kid.

"Take some," I mumble, hoping my voice sounds clearer to him than it does to me. I tell him this all the time, but he don't ever listen. I point the needles in his direction anyway. My hands shake. "It'll make ya feel better."

He shakes his head and looks at me. He just looks. That's another sign he's grown up. A couple years ago he'd flip out, tell Soda, and I'd get a huge lecture about how bad drugs are from him. His eyes would shine in disappointment.

Now they shine in understanding, and that might be even worse. I don't want him to understand. I guess war and death can change anyone, even the people who don't experience it firsthand.

The dreams I have at night are the worst. I see the people I care about: Soda, Two-Bit, Darry. My dad. Never Evie. And then there's the kid. Always the kid. He's the one I see the most, and I just don't know why. Maybe it's because he's the only one I can't imagine being in that scenario, killing someone; it's just so foreign and weird, not like him.

I can't see that idealistic motherfucker killin' anyone ever. He's so stupid he'd probably die before shootin' some Gook. God help him.

I get dreams of him gettin' killed before I can do anything about it.

I get dreams where I'm the one doin' the killing.

And it's so unnerving; that's probably why I always let him stay.

Probably.

Every once in a while I hear whispers around town about how everyone thinks I'm dead. Let 'em think it.

I'm already halfway there.


End file.
